


We Go Too Fast To Hold Back

by ItsHighlightlover



Category: Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Serious Injuries, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mention of Marco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25971697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsHighlightlover/pseuds/ItsHighlightlover
Summary: "Luca""Yeah?" The Academy rider questions, squirming on the seat, as if he didn't already know what is that matter Valentino urgently needs an update on.It's frightening, feeling that his sanity is at stake with the question, constrained by the information he's sure Luca hides behind his back like a guilty child."Marc?" He can't come up with anything else but his name, that one that has been scorching his insides since he felt the collision. It hangs on the atmosphere of the quiet room, slightly broken but still ablaze. Valentino feels the remnants of the heat on his throat, stinging.Luca's shoulders sag, lowering his look in defeat and it's all he needs to sit up violently.
Relationships: Marc Marquez/Valentino Rossi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	We Go Too Fast To Hold Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jules9326](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jules9326/gifts).



> Honey, thanks so much for the amazing prompt. After what happened last weekend I can't see anything more fitting to write about than this. We talked about it a couple of weeks ago, but sometimes it's indeed too easy to forget how dangerous this sport really is. From time to time, it's necessary to bring it up and be aware of it.  
> This takes place in some kind of alternative version of the 2020 season, if this pandemic hadn't occurred.
> 
> I really hope you like it, sweetheart. This one is for you, thanks so much for your constant support and nice words. It means a lot <3

It's dark.

The black visor of his helmet is against the gravel, yes, but that's not it.

It's because he hasn't opened his eyes since the moment he felt the impact.

For several seconds, a buzzing on his right ear is all he can hear. And that eerie, false silence is what prompts Valentino to shake his head, desperately seeking for the commotion on the grandstands and the roaring of the engines. It's never quiet during a race. It shouldn't be. Sundays are meant to be noisy. That's why his heaving chest is flooded with pure relief when diverse indistinct sounds start filtering through the ringing on the ear. Unknown voices and shouts meddle with the rapid pumping on his veins, as muffled as if he was trying to listen to a conversation while being underwater.

Perhaps because of the blow to the head, he needs an instant to identify the language when the words get more clear. _Spanish_. It makes sense, he supposes, given that are the pebbles of Motorland, in Aragon, what crunches under his gloves when he gathers enough strength to propel himself on his knees. He grunts when a sharp pang travels down his left forearm, a repeat of the motion it's not necessary to know that the aching source is his elbow.

Despite the fact that it's printed on his leathers, he is no real doctor, but he has endured enough injuries on the course of his career to ponder the seriousness of the issue. He has broken bones before, and this kind of intense pain it's quite similar to that one of an actual fracture.

He jolts his head once more, reaching for the strap of his helmet with the other hand. His lungs scream for oxygen, the heat about to become utterly unbearable inside the headgear. Unfortunately, his coordination has not recovered sufficiently to succeed at loosening the clasp, leaving him trapped, coughing and blinking through the mental flashes of what happened barely two minutes ago.

A bad move. Braking a millisecond too late. Even for him. The adrenaline that only rolls in during a good battle unleashed a reckless reaction that experience shouldn't have allowed. He's too old for these kind of mistakes. He, more than anyone else on the grid, should know how hazardous it can get.

The cold clash of metal on metal. A smudge of orange, black and red before his eyes slammed shut.

He abruptly snaps them open upon recalling that precise moment. That exact instant when he lost control and couldn't avoid sweeping the Honda away. The one with the proud 93 on the fairing.

Marc's Honda.

_Marc._

It's also a shock to him, how harsh is the surge of anguish that climbs up his throat. He yanks the visor upwards, squinting against the sudden strike of sunlight and dust that hits his retinas. He waits a split second, until it stops blinding him, to scan his surroundings with an unsettling sense of urgency.

He doesn't know where it comes from.

He doesn't know what is it that he frantically wants to find.

But he needs to find it. Right know.

A short woman clad in orangey marshal attire makes it into his range of vision, asking if he's fine. She has to repeat it a total of three times before she gets a satisfactory response out of him. He clutches his damaged elbow, clenching his teeth as he presses it against his side to minimize the movement.

He turns on his heels in one last ditch attempt of making sure everything is okay -as okay as it can be after a crash- only to find a sight that knocks all air out of his chest.

The only part of the champion he can actually see from his point of view gets to be the white ant on the top of his helmet. The rest remains hidden inside the circle of marshals that huddle around him.

And Valentino is surprised to discover that the first thing he wants to do is call out his name, at the top of his lungs, just to see him _move_. Because he's completely still, and that's wrong -it's Marc they are talking about- watching the boy move becomes the only thing he wants. The only thing he can suddenly think about.

The shout itches in his throat, unreleased, and he's _this_ close to shrugging off the insistent workers that, albeit with good intentions, demand him to walk out of track. It's bizarre, how the mere idea of leaving his sworn rival behind revolves his guts.

The marshals are nervous, he notes, but not in that usual restlessness derived from having the responsibility of attending hurt riders. This time, he catches looks of utter panic as they hurry to take the stretcher to where it's needed. Valentino's steps falter, his legs go weak, struggling with supporting him.

_No._

_Please, no._

He tightens his hold on his injured elbow as his mind races uncontrollably with thoughts and recollections he would like to not think about right now. He barely notices he's being dragged towards the exit, where some photographer in a scooter already awaits to take him back to the box. The box. The team. The bike. The race. Somehow, the DNF has become the last of his concerns, because fuck, what he wouldn't give to watch Marc stand up on his own.

_Which it's not happening._

He cranes his neck, still stubbornly overwhelmed by the necessity of making sure that it's not as grave as he deep down knows it must be. But all his senses can suddenly register it's the siren of the ambulance, piercing his ears, the sight of the red flag that puts a premature end to the race and that makes him so sick to the stomach it's a miracle he doesn't give into the urge of bending over to throw up.

The nauseating sensation of deja-vu doesn't leave. It refuses to detach itself from his ribcage as someone pushes him onto the seat of the scooter.

He's gone through this, already.

_Once._

The only differences being that they are not in 2011, this is not Malaysia, he's not in Ducati leathers and above all, this one has been entirely _his_ fault.

* * *

Valentino has been asked about it a few times throughout his life; how does it feel to crash on track. _Bella domanda_ , he always thinks. Because it is, indeed, a good question, whose answer he never seems capable of putting into words.

He can never fully convey how much of a paradox it is, if he really thinks about it.

It's fast, just a few seconds long, mostly. But oh, how painfully slow do those seconds go by, trapping him and his bike into a chaotic spiral beyond any kind of control that, depending on the force it bears, destroys more or less of what it finds on its path.

That is, at least, if there isn't anyone else involved.

He's not one to crash often but there was some wicked familiarity in the way the handlebars escaped his grip. It unfolded the way it usually does, the sensations not that foreign.

Valentino wonders if having a vivid nightmare about it it's his own personal kind of punishment.

He's not that startled when he opens his eyes to the lights of some hospital room. Reality seeps through the flashes that his mind insists on repeating over and over again as if it was some kind of loop meant to torture him.

He groans hoarsely, shutting his eyes while blindly checking up the feeling on each part of his body. The revision, as expected, trips when he tries to test the mobility of his stiff elbow, restricted by the postoperative bandage that stares right back at him like the obnoxious proof that all of that did actually happen.

"How do you feel?"

Even though Luca's voice is the first one he would have anticipated to hear, it startles him. He jerks his head, looking for the point it came from to find his brother sitting on a chair by the hospital bed he's currently occupying. There's a dark shade under his stark blue eyes. Worry looms over them too, as he leans forward to grip the edge of the thin mattress. Valentino imagines it's because he wants to make sure that he's actually conscious, or maybe to take a better look at his surely wasted appearance.

In all honesty, his inner state is not any less battered.

"Like shit" he rasps, forcing a gulp to moisture his dry mouth. The clipped words seem to be enough for Luca to take the hint and hand him a water bottle he kindly opens beforehand, taking notice of Valentino's inability to do so on his own.

 _As usual, nothing goes past him_ -he muses proudly- _no matter how tired he must be_. Luca truly takes after their mother, in that aspect.

Valentino sits up with a grimace, his limbs still rather numb, and nods gratefully at his sibling, relishing in the pleasing effect of the cold liquid down his throat.

"I figured" Luca sighs under his breath and Valentino doesn't know what to make of the thickness on his brother's voice tone, whose gaze drops to peer at his wounded joint, pointing at it with a swift motion of his chin "Does the elbow hurt?"

He carefully rotates said arm, actually measuring the level of discomfort to answer sincerely.

"Not right now" he murmurs, giving the plastic bottle back to Luca to let himself fall back against the pillow with a muffled thud.

He silently goes over the stray memories he keeps about the period of time between the crash and this very moment. They roll like a videotape in bad condition, faded and smudged. He vaguely recalls being taken to the medical centre, then nudged into a car towards the hospital. The following conversation with the doctors once they got the X-rays done is sketchy, just like the consent he gave to undergo a quick surgery to treat the open fracture. Side effects of his mind being somewhere else.

He wonders what kind of sorcery have the nurses applied on his sedation to prevent his head from imploding.

"Good" Luca hums tensely, twisting his phone between long fingers. The Moto2 rider's look doesn't stop anywhere for more than one second and a half and Valentino knows him well enough to recognize that as a bad omen. However, the younger adamantly goes on with the calm act before Valentino can articulate the question that burns on his tongue "Uccio went downstairs for a coffee, he'll be back in a minute. Mom called too. She saw what happened and wanted to catch a plane right away, but I persuaded her to stay at home. You should talk to her later, though"

He does his best to gather the information, putting that owed conversation with Stefania on the second place of his priority list. _Later_. At the moment, though, it's as if his own system was blackmailing him by refusing to work properly unless he dares to ask. That much is proven when the beeping of the monitor that matches his heart rate picks up speed.

"I will" He swallows hastily, drawing a deep breath the way he always does when he's on his grid position and the lights are about to disappear. This gnawing distress is much worse yet he bites the bullet with as much firmness as he can muster. He doesn't speak until he catches his brother's restless eyes in a chokehold, not willing to let him go without a reply "Luca"

"Yeah?" The Academy rider questions, squirming on the seat, as if he didn't already know what is that matter Valentino urgently needs an update on. 

It's frightening, feeling that his sanity is at stake with the question, constrained by the information he's sure Luca hides behind his back like a guilty child. 

"Marc?" He can't come up with anything else but his name, that one that has been scorching his insides since he felt the collision. It hangs on the atmosphere of the quiet room, slightly broken but still ablaze. Valentino feels the remnants of the heat on his throat, stinging.

Luca's shoulders sag, lowering his look in defeat and it's all he needs to sit up violently. Because he needs to move, his elbow be damned, he must do something because it's not possible for him to think clearly, by any means. The memory of that fucking red flag punches him square in the face, his head spins abruptly, filled to the limit with unsaid assumptions and rough implications while his guts revolt and that's n-

"Vale" Luca calls out immediately, stopping Valentino a second away from snatching the intravenous line off his hand with a blunt pull. That bright idea could have surely ended up in a small bleeding, all his muscles protest at the sudden movement and still, he's far from caring about any of that "H-he's conscious"

He halts all at once, blinking twice to take the statement in. That's when he notices he's nearly panting.

Relief surges up his spine with such a demolishing force he has to plant his healthy arm on the surface of the bed to steady his bodyweight and remain seated. The monitor's bleeps are not slowing down but the frequency of his 120 beats per minute owes its vividness to disoriented hope instead of being a product of despair. He obliges his own body to calm down, preferably to avoid getting himself a tachycardia, something that, going by Luca's expression, his young sibling is already dreading.

But Marc's is awake. _He's awake_. That's an anchor on itself Valentino can hold onto. For a couple of seconds, at least. Once the initial respite has worn off, it's not enough. He gulps audibly, holding back the urge of reaching for water once more.

"And?" He presses quietly, tentatively "Is he okay?"

That's a question he would have never, ever released with such palpable concern if the situation had been different, the prospect of giving away how Marc still affects him is always among the things he has to be careful with. Right now, though, he's too tired and high on painkillers to pretend he doesn't give a fuck.

In that regard, he's glad it's just Luca on the room. He's the only one who always manages to see through the nonchalant facade, anyway.

"Not exactly" the Moto2 rider nips on his lower lip, scowling as if voicing that was upsetting for him, as well.

Valentino inhales loudly, throwing a quick glance upwards, purposefully ignoring the fact that the nurses will probably freak out after checking his blood pressure levels.

"What the fuck do you mean by 'not exactly'?" He hisses shakily. That's insufficient. Incomplete. _Unfair_. Marc should be fine. Completely fine. No exceptions. If anyone deserves an injury after that race that's him and only him.

Luca stands on his feet, changing his phone from one hand to the other.

"I-I don't know much. I've just texted Alex" he explains in a low voice, his body language as agitated as Valentino's nerves. And, again, that can't be good. Luca is the coolheaded one and the sight of his restless brother only prompts him to brace himself for what's coming "He told me Marc woke up about an hour ago and the doctors ran some tests-"

"Result?" Valentino cuts him mid-sentence, he has run out of patience to wait any longer. Nonetheless, it backfires, because his brother shuts up immediately, looking almost grateful after being interrupted. So Valentino insists, pushing for the rest. _Scary as it is_ "Luca"

The younger gives in with another ragged sigh, turning to look at him straight in the eye.

"Remember the optical nerve injury he had years ago?" He mumbles softly and Valentino pales, dismay rising up his guts like a suffocating wave. Luca's voice sounds miles away to his own ears when he continues phrasing what he can already guess "It got damaged again. They still need to do more analyses but Dr. Mir doesn't know if he'll be able to fix it this time-"

His movable hand jerks up to his forehead, descending to pinch the bridge of his nose in dejection. Thoughts build up inside his head in a clutter, threatening to overcome the analgesics' effect and consume him completely.

"It should have been me" Valentino utters gravelly. And maybe he is still too sedated to think and reason, and that's why the conviction which dares to whisper that he would trade his diagnosis with the Honda rider's in a heartbeat, sounds so authentic. Because in this exact moment, he would. He shouldn't, of course. But it's crushing; how much he wishes he _could._

"Vale, don't" his brother reaches him in two strides, placing his hand in his shoulder. The touch is gentle -it's Luca, after all- but it's like burning lead. He can't understand why it feels as if he could suddenly brake at the smallest contact "Don't do this to yourself, it was an accident. Could have happened to any of us"

He can't bite back a bitter scoff that he's aware that Luca doesn't deserve.

"But it shouldn't have happened to him" he asserts in a thin rustle, removing the young rider's palm off his shoulder with as much tact as he can gather right now, code for almost none, by the way.

He admires Luca's resilience for not giving up, though, evident in the way he rolls his shoulders back. Valentino doesn't know which one of them is proving to be more stubborn by not settling when the other it's surely not budging. Another trait they owe to their mum.

"It was a mistake-"

"My mistake!" He snaps back, feebly, totally drained to help it or cover it up.

 _A mistake that might have fucked up his career for good_. He doesn't say it out loud, but it scratches Valentino's vocal cords like the tip of a nail against a metallic plate.

Fortunately Luca knows him well enough to read what's on his mind.

"You don't know that" his brother says, barely audible, as if he feared the noise would startle Valentino and make him bolt away. However, it's not Luca's voice what takes him aback but the wet trail that slips down his own cheekbone, out of nowhere. He needs a second to catch up and realize that it's a tear. He angrily brushes it off, frustrated and fed up because he's beyond grown-up for this and yet he can't even bring himself to look at anything but the sterilized tiles of the floor, trying to keep the remaining wetness at bay. Luca's arms are firm, when they envelope him and it must be the proximity what makes his words sound less distant "You don't, okay?"

He doesn't reply, not that he would have been capable, even if he wanted.

* * *

He's sure now that the medication is colluding with his subconscious to haunt him, therefore why he was dreaming about _him._ Again.

Well, to be fair, it's not _entirely_ about Marc, at the beginning.

And it's not as if it was the first time the boy has made it into his dreams, anyway, a fact he would rather not dig into at the moment.

He recognizes the particular golden hue of the sun rays that fall over The Ranch, particles of the dusty sand flickering in the air, sticking to the rough leather of his overall. Voices he has heard plenty of times before get mixed up in the background. Somehow, he's sure he would find Uccio standing at the other side of the wooden fence that outlines the track if he took a look over his shoulder. In a way, he knows he'll find Pecco and Franco chatting at his left, maybe Migno and Stefano teasing Luca for who knows what, too. It's all remarkably familiar, yet blended with some foreign elements and faces that are not ordinary parts of a typical day at The Ranch.

It's then when it hits him. It's not just a dream. It's a _memory._ He understands when he catches sight of Rabat, heading towards the bike he brought along. _True_. He invited the other spaniard, as well, that same day. The day Marc came over.

It feels as if his mind was torn in two, split in between the point of view of _current Valentino_ and the mentality of _2014 Valentino_. And even though he's still weakly connected to his present self, he has no control over what's going on. He can only listen, see and _remember, remember, remember._

_The cream colored gravel cracks under the soles of his boots as he makes his way towards the start line, where the bikes await for their riders, arranged in a neat row. But he's only focused on one of them, to be exact, getting rid of the distance separating them by taking large steps. When he finally reaches his destination, sparkly dark eyes shoot up to meet his. Goosebumps awake all over the skin under the collar of his leathers at the vision. At the realization. He finally got the two of them together: his home and that kid that seems to effortlessly attract all his attention whenever he is around._

_Most of his tan face is covered by the helmet but he's sure that the Honda rider's trademark smile is in full display under it, if going by the spark that spreads up to his gaze. The corner of Valentino's own lips twitches._

_"All ready, bambino?"_

_The endearment tastes natural on his tongue. It has since the moment it poured out of him after Marc's first MotoGP podium in Losail. And he would be lying if he said he hasn't got addicted to the amusing effect it unchains. It never fails. Like that first time he addressed the young rider with it, Marc's pupils instantly dilate, fusing deep black with coffee brown, his body language immediately lighting up. It's such a shame that the pretty shade of blush that must be coloring those sharp cheekbones is hidden from view just now._

_"For a race? Always" Marc's clear chuckle enhances the words that Valentino knows are one hundred percent truthful. Competitiveness crackles around the spaniard's body the way it usually does. If anything, today, playful as ever._

_Valentino wonders if that's the magnet that constantly pulls him in without any form of mercy or consideration. Like in this very moment._

_His hand moves at its own accord, settling on the upper part of the leg Marc has thrown over the seat of his bike to keep the dirt-track motorcycle perfectly balanced despite his short height._

_It never ceases to amaze him, how tactile prone his body gets whenever the boy is near. Like a switch being flicked, be it in post-race congratulations, podium ceremonies or endless press conferences. He never gives too much thought to the reason behind that. It's never convenient. A delicate issue he never feels like mulling over. Moreover, it's apparently mutual, for all he knows, because the kid's hand jumps to cling onto his bicep straight away._

_"See that bend in the first turn?" Valentino lifts his index finger, pointing to the curve in question. He's not willing to analyze if it's a needless explanation for Marc's sharp perception, but coming over to share the lame tip feels totally worthy when the spaniard leans that bit closer -as usual- not caring about the concept of personal space "It's kind of tricky. Be careful there, it gets faster than it seems"_

_Both of them have their gloves on, but he swears he can sense the warmth get past the thick material, enveloping the graze of their body parts in unexpected intimacy. Marc sneaks a peak at the point of the track he's warning him about, blinking slowly as if he was picturing the best line to trace it. He probably is._

_His fingers start a light stroking movement on the spaniard's leathers._

_"Got it" Marc nods, turning to stare up at Valentino from under his long lashes, the grasp of the younger's hand on his arm leisurely slides down to end up squeezing Valentino's wrist, making the skin bristle on its way._ Once more _"Thanks for the advice, Vale"_

_Before he knows it, a wide smile has stretched Valentino's mouth, hopelessly, just like the urge to nip at his lower lip. Fortunately, both enraptured gestures stay concealed under the helmet._

_"You're welcome" He clears his throat, gently patting the younger's upper thigh before retrieving his hand._

_A whistle cuts the air, piercing its way to his ear. He looks over his shoulder to find what he expected; the Academy boys with their hands on their hips and wearing curious gazes, impatiently waiting for the race to start. He doesn't pause to return the teasing look Luca is shooting at him, sorting it out with a roll of his eyes._

_Valentino turns to Marc, who lowers his eyelids just then with the speed of someone that has been caught doing something wrong._

_He acts without thinking, driven by the wrench his chest gives at the sight. He cups the sides of the Honda rider's helmet, making sure it's in place before securing the strap of the fastener under Marc's chiselled jaw. He's not going to brood over how determined he is to make sure the kid is safe. He's not going to overthink why he has to leave a tender stroke on the side of Marc's neck before taking a step back, either._

_Deep brown orbs that gape up at him in awe it's the last thing Valentino resumes his way towards his own bike._

_After that, the day goes away in the blink of an eye, between the usual sound of turned on engines and skidding tyres._

_For the record, he's sure that any type of recommendation was ridiculously unnecessary. Marc outlines the track of The Ranch as if he had done it a thousand times before, putting all their previous time marks to shame._

_At this point, Valentino is over being blown away by the boy's insane talent, but it's kind of entertaining to see how everyone else is still rendered speechless by it. He can tell that even Uccio is having a hard time at concealing his incredulity._

_On top of that, it's somehow difficult for Valentino to understand why his own amazed smirk seems to be the only thing Marc seeks and needs for that perpetual smile of his to widen._

He's relieved, at first, when his subconscious mind spares him from reviving the good-bye hug that the Honda rider gave him that day. But the break doesn't last for long. How naive of him to think it would. The next thing he knows is that all kind of recollections from 2014 unfold under his closed eyelids. That fucking year he made the mistake of letting down his guard. That season he allowed the boy to get so, so close. _Too close._ Past the safe limit of platonic attraction. Close enough to screw him up badly, afterwards, leaving behind only memories he swore to himself he would forget.

Because they fucking hurt.

It still hurts to recall nights on hotel rooms, huddled while discussing old races, whispered conversations in the middle of a press conference, shared podiums and text messages exchanged at the break of dawn.

He has avoided it for years yet now all of them hit him like a blow in the stomach, getting away from the bounds he had tied them to.

But when the nausea truly hits it's when the thoughts end up overlapping with reminiscences of no other than _Marco_ , who is no longer there. _Marco, who is gone._

Valentino wakes up struggling against ragged breathing and a throbbing headache, tangled in those scratchy hospital bed sheets that seem to drown him while realizations asphyxiate him.

Because the assault of pleasing memories he just went through reduces the absurd grudges he has clung onto all these years, to dust. Because they race at 300km/h every two weeks. Because Sepang and Argentina lose all the weight that once made them feel so stupidly important. Because the thought of Marc not racing again it's sorely unbearable.

As unbearable as the idea of being part of a championship without him _._

* * *

"Any news?" He winces, unable to mask a disgruntled growl when Luca fastens the strap of the sling around his neck. The thing may support his injured arm, but it's one hell of a pain in the ass to carry around.

Valentino can hear a timid chuckle that he knows belongs to Pecco at his right. The boys of the Academy have paid him a very needed, long visit that has been like oxygen insufflated directly to his veins. He really doesn't want to know if Luca has previously lectured them on how they should take his mind off things, something Valentino highly suspects, given that the crash topic was dodged at all costs. But they have done a good job at helping him let go of all the pent up tension. _As usual._

He straightens his spine to stand up from the bed, feeling better now that he is finally in a clean shirt and casual dark jeans with his feet comfortably enveloped by his favorite Nike sneakers. He sighs meekly, adjusting the position of the arm sling while picturing quite realistically how his mom would order him to stop bitching.

Valentino almost smiles upon recalling how being on the phone with her has also been rather useful to vent all his uneasiness.

Moreover, getting an answer to his question would also be of help. He nudges Luca with his non-disabled elbow, repeating it noiselessly.

His brother's look goes from focused to distracted in a matter of seconds as he shakes his head. And Valentino's recovering mood plummets.

Franco coughs uncomfortably, the trail of Migno's laughter at something Bezzecchi must have told him quickly dies, getting lost in the suddenly charged ambient.

Valentino's jaw tightens. He loathes this sensation with a passion, getting the impression that they are keeping information from him.

He has felt the urge to take his phone and go on the internet more than once in the course of the last 24h, just to find out what was going on. Something that he would never bring himself to do, in the end.

Valentino can't deny that he is avoiding any form of contact with the press and the media like the plague, not ready neither interested in reading the soap opera the press must have come up with.

Still, just like yesterday, he holds on to how much he trusts Luca.

"Did you ask Alex?" He insists.

After his memory/sleep-induced crisis last night and waking up in a cold sweat under the preoccupied attention of Uccio and his little brother, nearing the limit of hyperventilation, a rush of energy had taken over him. _Perks of hitting rock bottom_ , he supposes. One can only go up from there. Maybe that's how he managed to swallow his enormous pride and said it out loud.

Said that he wants to see Marc. Requested that he _needs_ to.

And so he had voiced while gasping, bent over the edge of bed. Perhaps the odd scenario was what had stretched silence in the room, both Uccio and Luca assuming that he was still delusional or drugged by pain relievers.

But he had insisted, later -even after the doctors' emergency check up as a result of the episode- and it was then when they finally seemed to get that he was dead serious about seeing the kid.

Plus, an early phone conversation with Paolo, this very morning, had only reinforced his resolve, pushing him to do what he knows is right.

For once, he's done with running away.

"I did" Luca tells him thoughtfully, standing right in front of him with an earnest expression, as if pondering if he should keep talking. With a deep sigh, he seemingly chooses to go on "His father wasn't very happy with the idea, but he ended up accepting. They think Marc will appreciate it"

Valentino downs a gulp of spit before releasing a scoff, feeling both reassured and jittery. He has actually considered the possibility of being denied the consent to see the Honda rider. At all times, it looked like the most logical outcome to his demand. And still, they leave him dumbfounded by _letting him_ drop by.

After 2015, getting any close to the younger's family has felt like a minefield. Now, in addition, if Marc's injury ends up being an insoluble problem, he's sure he won't be able to look at them in the face ever again. And still, they don't forbid him from getting close. Like they should.

And he's not getting into what it'll be like to stand feet away from Marc himself. His guts tie in a taut knot as he watches Luca changing into the clean hoodie the boys brought him.

"I doubt it" Valentino mumbles darkly "If he didn't hate me before he surely does now"

"Marc has never hated you and you know that" his brother clicks his tongue in exasperation, echoing something he has been telling him since the moment Valentino got off the bike spilling expletives, that grey day in Sepang, where he managed condemn all his chances for the title "And I don't think he ever could"

Dense silence fills the hospital room once more and he's shaken by a strike of weakness Valentino can't stand. Luca's undeniable remark looms over them, exposing him in a way he doesn't like at all. Because he's perfectly aware of that fact. That he has never been on the receiving end of a spite he has earned by far.

But Marc doesn't do harsh feelings, by the looks of it.

_So far. Maybe this one has been the final straw._

"Let's go"

Valentino blinks, his train of thought suddenly cut by Uccio's grumble. It's rather surprising, given that his friend has hardly spoken a word since last night.

He has discarded his assistant's mood swing as a natural reaction based on Uccio's evident aversion towards the spaniard, theory proven now that he looks way more eager to let go of the topic than Valentino himself. _And that's to say something._

Valentino simply observes how Uccio throws his backpack over his shoulder, dragging the Academy riders out towards the corridor with an irate jerk of his head. Only Luca falls a step behind, shrugging his shoulders to shape a simple gesture that, thankfully, succeeds at being soothing, at expressing that he shouldn't add Uccio's resentful tantrum to his piled up worries.

He won't. He has had enough of those.

It doesn't take more than five seconds for the usual protagonist of his headaches to hog the spotlight on Valentino's head.

He'll be lucky if he doesn't have a mental breakdown before he gets to his room.

* * *

He nearly runs into Jorge Lorenzo as he makes his way around the corner.

To be fair, getting there had been too easy, to begin with. _It had to get awkward at some point._

The elevator took them to the upper floor in no time and Franco had swiftly guided them to the right room, the exact number kindly provided by Marc's little brother. _Who would have thought that having his boys still getting -somehow- along with Alex Márquez would come so in handy?_

The hallway of the hospitalization wing is, fortunately, almost empty. _Pretty positive to avoid an audience given they bizarre scene we must be making up_ , he muses.

His ex-teammate gapes at him for a bunch of seconds and it's not as if Valentino could blame him. He supposes that finding _him_ just a few feet away from Marc's room, with Morbidelli and Luca in tow is not the first thing Jorge would have foreseen.

"I didn't expect to see you here" the majorcan echoes, as if he had just read his mind.

Valentino changes his weight to the other leg instead of giving in to the involuntary urge of crossing his arms over his chest.

"I believe I owe him that" he goes for, frankly, not willing to overthink any of this nor second-guess himself. Especially not now that he's right there. Or else he'll end up turning around and sprinting towards the exit.

What can he say, anyway? _It's the least I can do after -probably- fucking up the rest of his career?_ _After resenting him for five years straight and publicly stepping over his attempts of making amends?_

Jorge's eyes soften and Valentino relaxes at once. Because he knows Lorenzo won't push it further. Because he knows Lorenzo doesn't do small talk, he knows that he goes straight to the core of the topic, that he never wastes more words than necessary. Because he knows Lorenzo _understands_. Like no one else. Jorge knows him and that's enough for the spaniard to step aside and nod at him to go on.

Valentino doesn't get to ask what is it that has taken Jorge there, he gets the reason the moment he goes around the corner and his eyes fall on the three figures at the end of the corridor.

Dani chats quietly with who he recognizes as Marc and Alex's parents. It doesn't get past him how his former teammate's green eyes linger on the short KTM rider just a second longer, a spark badly hidden there.

Valentino would shamelessly snigger aloud if he wasn't completely on edge, himself. Tomorrow, perhaps, he'll process that Jorge is waiting for Pedrosa, tomorrow he'll take in that they came together. Not that it should shock him, anyway. He knows first hand what sometimes lies behind steely rivalries. Because Valentino _knows_ things, as well. So there is nothing else to say.

He doesn't utter a word related to the matter. Neither does Lorenzo. And he's so glad it was him who they bumped into.

"Take care of that elbow" Jorge flatly gestures towards the sling that holds Valentino's arm, a fleeting grin withheld on the former rider's lips.

He blinks, momentarily confused until it dawns on him that Yamaha must have made an announcement with his medical condition. Jarvis probably told Valentino that much when they talked yesterday. Had his brain really been that muddled during the phone call?

He doesn't have time to think much about it, as they have already spotted him.

_There's no backing away now._

He turns to Luca and Franco before he raises the palm of his available hand, signaling to them to stay behind.

Now, it's up to him alone.

Gathering the inner courage that has allowed him to claim nine championships, Valentino walks onward. Cautiously. Slowly, the soles of his sneakers as heavy as if they were made of lead.

He's clenching his jaw so tightly he's sure it'll be sore, later.

The double take Dani does would have been funny in other circumstances. Right now, however, Valentino can only greet him with an uptight shake of his head.

He casts a brief glance at Marc's father, not keen on receiving the man's cold glare for more than two seconds. What he wasn't ready for, though, is the little, tired smile Marc's mum offers him, like a raw punch in the throat.

_So that's who the kid got his forgiving nature from._

Strangely enough, it does take away some of the burden. It undermines the guilt. Just a tiny bit, it makes him feel less of an asshole.

She assents, granting him an access he hasn't realized he was still looking for.

Valentino is almost surprised to see that his hand is not shaking when he goes for the doorknob.

He pushes it down with the determination of someone that wants to get it over with, quickly deciding against knocking. He's already fed up with _thinking_ , _thinking_ and just _thinking_ about it without getting anything done. He simply needs to see Marc. And he's just inside. _Have the guts, Rossi_.

He pushes it open.

The blinds are lowered when he sneaks a peak inside, even though enough amount of morning light filters through them for the space to remain perfectly visible. The room is almost identical to the one Valentino left hardly ten minutes ago, the only difference being the location of the little cubicle he could barely call a bathroom.

He gets in, smoothly, letting his back press the door shut with a low click.

A second ticks away.

"Alex, I told you I want to be alone" _his_ voice spits it into the void, coming from the body that lies on the bed, on its side, with his back to the entrance.

_They didn't warn him._

Marc doesn't know it's him and the idea only adds to his restlessness, but he can't overlook how hearing him talk normally is relieving in a way he hadn't expected it to be. He has not taken into account until now how bad he wanted to replace the sight of the boy motionless in the gravel as the most recent memory he had of Marc. Seeing the boy snuggled in a hospital bed it's not ideal, but it's something.

Valentino doesn't move for another four seconds. He can't bring himself to do so. But the breath he has been holding finally escapes his lungs.

"Ciao" he cracks what must be one of the hardest hellos he has ever let out.

The response is instantaneous. He can actually see how the muscles on Marc's back tense up, easily visible given the fact that he's not wearing a shirt. Valentino inhales shakily.

Clearly, the kid has recognized him, even if Valentino's voice has sounded foreign to his own ears.

He closes his good hand in a fist when the champion stirs. So warily. As if afraid to turn around. Valentino doesn't want to find out whether Marc wants to actually see him there or if he would prefer it to be a delusion.

He can only stare, behold the sight of the spaniard sitting up and twisting his torso in what seems like slow motion, to finally pin him down with those brown eyes of his. The first thing Valentino notices -and hates- it's that they are glassy, bloodshot. Presumably irritated by tears. _Still unfairly pretty_.

"Vale" Marc mumbles hoarsely, making him suddenly snap out of it. The nickname on the younger's tongue sounds utterly awestruck yet familiar, reminding Valentino of the hundreds of times he must have heard it in the past.

His heart hammers against his ribs when he, eventually, unglues his back from the white door to approach the bed.

Marc gawks at him, apparently trying to comprehend if he's hallucinating. And Valentino is violently shaken by a blow of conflicted emotions right then. This is not that far from what he expected to encounter yet he's still somehow waiting for Marc to lash out at him. He's waiting for the boy to make a fuss, to spit curses and insults that Valentino deserves to hear, well aware, at the same time, that it's something that is never going to happen.

Instead the younger simply swallows, not taking his gaze off Valentino's as he moves aside, _fucking inviting him_ to have a seat.

He glances at the ceiling, wondering if there could ever be anything suitable to say in this situation. Everything Valentino comes up with strikes as insufficient, unfitting. _Useless_. He strokes his pounding temples, closing his eyes to try and collect his scattered thoughts.

It doesn't work. His mind goes completely blank the moment he meets Marc's look again, and he blurts out the only thing his mind revolves around.

"I'm so sorry" Valentino despises the way his tone breaks in the last syllable. His tear ducts prickle when it tumbles off his mouth. Even so, he realizes straight away, that's it's the most sincere apology he has uttered in years.

And it's so fucking _liberating_. Like cutting the ties of an anchor that has been weighing him down for too long. He's sorry for adding fuel to a fire he should have never started, in the first place. He's sorry for not being able to listen. To understand. He's sorry because it had to get this nasty for him to wake up. Him, of all people. He, who lost a friend once. He, who has been swimming against the dangers of a job that could finish him any day, during more than twenty years. He, who should have known better.

Now that he got it out of his chest he notices how much keeping the sentence locked deep down _burned_ , leaving him choking on the ashes while he can only watch how Marc pushes himself backwards, straightening to rest his back against the headboard. The kid shoves the immaculate bed sheets off his legs, revealing the pair of grey sweatpants he wears as circles his knees, embracing them against his chest.

And the posture clashes drastically with the fierce image everyone is used to seeing. Not so much with the version of Marc that Valentino doesn't allow himself to remember, though.

He looks so little now, it blows Valentino away. But certainly not more than the Honda rider's statement right after.

"That's racing" Marc has the guts to say as he bites his lower lip, its rosy tint giving away that it's a nervous habit. One that still drives Valentino crazy.

He would have mentally kicked himself for that if he wasn't having problems with believing that he has heard correctly.

 _Of course he would reply that_. And it's not the first time. It's not the first time he simply doesn't know how to react to the little miracle that is Marc.

There is no other way to describe him.

After all they have gone through, their ups and downs, in spite of their unsolved story and that strange pull that binds them together no matter what, Marc refuses to throw it onto him, facing the scary possibility of not racing again with disarming composure.

 _Apparent composure_ , though.

Valentino knows him well enough to pick up the details; the red-rimmed lash line of his eyes and the dull gleam they withhold tell him everything he needs to know.

It betrays that the younger is just putting up a wall, that he's strong enough to do that, even now.

"What do I do with you?" Valentino reflects out loud, nearly _whines_ it, tugging hard on the strap of his arm sling in frustration. What he wouldn't give to have the slightest idea about how to handle this. How to handle _him_.

Marc's attempt of a smile ends up in a grimace, and Valentino's muscles contract with that desperate _desire to touch_ that was so common to him six years ago. His mind wanders towards his triggering dream the previous night as he unintentionally compares that version of Marc stored in his memory -that boy he couldn't get enough of- and this man he has before his eyes.

The conclusion is more clear than he would have liked it to be. Marc managed to get under his skin and never got out.

"Just so you know, I really enjoyed our battle on the first laps. Well, until th-"

Valentino should have braced himself for this already, if going by how the visit has unfolded so far yet _shit_ , it's so like Marc to make such a comment -while injured- that he has to hold back the urge to go fully hysterical.

"Shut up" he cuts in, reducing the distance between them in two strides because he can't stand it any longer. The fingers of his right hand reach out for the faint bruise blooming above one of Marc's eyebrows before he can stop it. He's allowed a total of three seconds of physical contact before the spaniard jolts his head away from it with a light scowl, as if trying to make out his intentions. He can read a spark of defiance crossing those piercingly dark eyes that Valentino doesn't look away from when he talks again "You scared me"

He tells him because it's the truth and Valentino wants him to know that he's not touching him out of pity. More like out necessity. Because flashbacks of that moment, of the younger unmoving on the ground, keep on haunting him.

Marc immediately gets it. _Of course he does_. And he nods, giving consent for Valentino's thumb to continue its trail down his cheekbone.

His skin it's as smooth as he remembers it, the features as sharp and flawless as they were back then when everything was easy between them and what happened on track stayed there.

He only takes his hand away to sit down on that spot Marc has left for him. _Willingly._

And for a moment, he falls completely silent, drowned in glazed brown and marvelling at that young champion that has always been too brave for his own good.

* * *

"They'll perform the surgery this afternoon, but there's no guarantee it'll be successful. The injury it's a bit different. More complex" Marc explains shortly, easily, while Valentino _tries to be good_ , with all his might, by focusing on the words instead of relishing in the way the spaniard has decided to reach out and slide his index fingertip over the bandage on his elbow. Bad idea to sit down so close to him. _Trust Marc to jump over any kind of boundary at the first opportunity._ He bites the inside of his cheek at a certain motion, too tender as if Marc believed he could make it hurt less by tracing it this softly. It's when the touch falters and the younger shrugs that Valentino shakes off the trance "Perhaps this is my limit"

 _You don't have one_. That, Valentino could swear.

The Honda rider places both hands at his sides, lowering his knees to sit cross-legged.

By the gloomy shade that flashes over his rival's expression, Valentino guesses it might be the first time Marc brings himself to admit that. Seeing how the spaniard's attitude twists and turns, torn between medical facts and his innate positivity, it's as fascinating as seeing him on top of a bike. But resignation is not something he's used to see on Marc. And he doesn't like it.

"It isn't" he shakes his head, fidgeting with his earring, not prepared to spare another second picturing that possibility. Vertigo tugs on his guts when the mere idea crosses Valentino's mind. He looks up, fixing his eyes on Marc, hoping they will show how convinced he wants him to be "They will fix it. Just like the other time"

_You are not done yet. Neither of us is._

Marc tilts his head in awe, his stare beyond intense, that perky glint that Valentino has a soft spot for in full display.

"Careful, Vale. You almost sound worried" He mutters under his breath, picking up on fondling Valentino's lower arm with the leftovers of a smirk playing on those lips "As if you cared"

_You'd be surprised._

"Nonsense" he fires back, narrowing his eyes and aiming for a poor retort whose credibility gets rusty and lost midway. Keeping a minimum of dignity would have been easier if Marc hadn't chosen that moment for his hand to descend and give Valentino's a squeeze, putting his self-control on the line.

"I know" the younger concedes wryly and Valentino finds out he's not bothered at all by Marc knowing that his effort of denial is a blatant lie.

It's irritating to hear the door opening, even if it's Marc's mum who sticks her head through the door to announce that Dr. Mir needs to meet his son.

Marc doesn't let go of his hand even when Valentino stands up. He doesn't have it in him to question the gesture, he's already enjoying it more than he should. Understanding that the spaniard is not letting him go without _something more_ , he finally gives in to it.

Marc's hair smells like mint when Valentino bows to drop a kiss on the top of his head. _It's been so long._

"Take care" he whispers, adoring the moved glow that stays on Marc's gaze when he pulls away, giving the younger's ear a fond tweak before heading towards the door. He briefly bids farewell to his mother with a thankful nod, but avoids saying any sort of goodbye to Marc. Because it's not needed. He intends to see him again _really soon_. He will.

The previous pressure on the chest that seemed to constrict Valentino's lungs is no longer there when he comes back to Luca and Franco, who he finds talking to Alex Márquez.

Marc's little brother gapes at him with some apprehension and Valentino doesn't hesitate, this time.

"Keep me updated, okay?" He asks sternly, directly, witnessing how Alex's features arrange themselves to honour his deer caught in the headlights reputation. A tiny, strained _yes_ it's all he gets, after that. But for Valentino is more than enough.

The ball has been in his court for a long time. If anyone has to make a move now, that's him.

The boys don't question a single thing as they stroll down to the hospital entry. Valentino has the impression that it's not needed.

Regardless of his wide experience, he has never been too good at masking his feelings.

* * *

Valentino has never been too fond of press conferences, that's why pretending that he isn't excited for this one is not particularly hard.

The race weekend in Valencia is always strange, its atmosphere changes sharply depending on the state the championship arrives in. The pressure is significantly less when the trophy already has a new owner, which is not the case this year, either way.

Still, it's interesting to realize that the identity of the soon to be champion -whether it ends up being Dovi or Maverick, after Marc's absence- it's not the main reason for the press room to be this packed.

Valentino is not even late, today. He waits by the door, only partially listening to what Danilo is telling him while they wait for the seven minutes left until five o'clock to pass. Besides, it's not as if they could begin without the star of this weekend's comeback.

That much is clear when the overall volume of the background buzz increases. Valentino already knows who is making it through the door before turning around.

It's been a month since he saw the younger in that sterile hospital room, and even if they have been texting regularly after that, it has nothing on having him half a meter away.

How everyone's breath hitches when their looks meet feels familiar, it reminds him of episodes he's not willing to repeat. Not if he can help it. Took him long enough to comprehend that it is not worth it.

There's simply no victory that can match the high of seeing Marc walking into the press conference. Safe and healed. Ready to race.

Marc's lips stretch in that smile of his as he comes closer. The younger's whole face lightens impishly when he comes to a halt right in front of him. Valentino knows that look. He was used to seeing it often, long ago. That sparkle that dares Valentino to strike back.

He does.

"Even _I_ have missed you" he mutters in a low chuckle, tugging on the hand Marc has outstretched before him to pull the Honda rider into a hug.

Thousands of camera flashes go off to capture an instant that will be posted everywhere within an hour but he couldn't care less.

He has never been into public gestures, but he has held back enough, already.

"Well, your suffering is over" Marc's laughter comes out muffled against Valentino's Yamaha polo shirt, the spaniard's body heat seeping through the fabric to make his skin crawl, even once they have pulled back. Cheeky dark eyes peer up at him. Completely cured. Marc detaches from the embrace, only to wink at him "Here I am"

Valentino beams, the way he hasn't done so in years.

 _Here they are_ , indeed. And it truly feels like a blessing after glimpsing how fragile that certainty can be.

Marc's knee immediately attaches itself to Valentino's, under the table, when they take their seats. His body hums pleasantly.

The same day he left, a dear friend taught him that their reality is made of glass. Hard to the touch but extremely vulnerable to impacts. Blows that most of the time they are just lucky enough to evade.

And Valentino swears he's not forgetting that, ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading❤ Feedback is always welcome if you feel like it. Love you all and please, stay safe.


End file.
